


forever bound

by acaiis



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Guilt, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Oneshot, Oops, Regrets, Self depreciation, am I worthy?, but no fluff, greed - Freeform, i guess?, maybe I‘ll come back to this, mostly angst, my go to way to hurt link, not all angsty, power, probably not, the master sword - Freeform, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26355412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaiis/pseuds/acaiis
Summary: “and the blade is forever bound the the soul of the hero, whether skyward bound, adrift in time, or steeped in the glowing embers of twilight...”
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	forever bound

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by (as the description implies) that one memory in botw where Zelda is knighting him. I don’t know what it is, but I have most definitely cried over it. Something about the way she says it. Will come back to this concept in some capacity, though this was my first thought. Very unpolished, but most of my writing isn’t polished anyways.

_**whether skyward bound...** _

The blade he was destined to wield was heavy in his hands as he drew it, the strange murmurs of an ancient wisdom pounding in his ears. And its ethereal spirit, silent but never quite, hovering nearby as if they were waiting. Waiting for what, he thought, and gave the sword an experimental swing.

In a world that was foreign and cruel, the sword remained his only constant. The spirit that resided within it spoke little, but their murmurs were ever present in his ears. Words that were too quiet to make out, like whispers heard from across the room. Relentless, he thought, when the whispers became a growl and the blade sliced with a vengeance he did not posses.

The sword is one minded in its purpose, dedicated entirely to the path laid out for it. Helping him seems almost like an item off a checklist for the spirit of the blade. They call him Master, but he feels as if the blade is the one that controls him instead. A hero chosen by destiny, set on a quest that he is beginning to realize is far larger than finding Zelda. He misses her once again and is given new trials to face. The sword weighs in his hand as he sets off once more.

The spirit seems to warm up to him, not spending quite so much time withdrawn into the sword as they once had. One night, while he is trying to sleep, he notices the spirit slip from the blade and settle by the edge of his camp, keeping watch. Perhaps they are not so distant as he initially assumed.

When his sword is fully tempered, he can feel the change instantaneously. The once murmurs become a tirade, the power that was once far below the surface now a thundering presence. And it is no longer his sword -- it is the Sword, the Blade of Evil’s Bane. The hope of the Goddess, put into him. The Goddess. He views his maybe - once friend from afar, and wonders just how long she had known.

There are more trials, and his days are spent running, chasing each new goal only to be presented with another. And through it all the Blade stays steady in his hand, their presence shifting from begrudging accompaniment to a warm strength, supporting him in his quest. He fights and the Sword swings with him, cutting and ripping and tearing in time with his heartbeat.

He is sitting by his fire one night, the Goddess Harp idle in his hands, and the Spirit is beside him, looking to the sky. It is odd, to have them here, a stark contrast to when he first began his journey. They turn to him, blank eyes settling on him. He is no longer unnerved by their appearance. Now, it brings comfort. They are a friend, he thinks, and shifts towards them.

  
“Shall I sing while you practice, Master?”

“Link,” he corrects on reflex. .“Yes, that would be nice.”

He picks up the harp and stretches out his fingers before plucking gently at the strings, the Spirit’s otherworldly voice joining him after a moment or two. It’s nice, he thinks, and tries to hold onto the moment.

But he is not so lucky to stay in these moments forever, and everything is crashing down around his shoulders. They had won, the evil defeated, when suddenly it all goes sideways. Zelda is gone once more and all of his work undone. The Spirit does not come from the Blade.

They are fighting, the Sword dangerous and sparking with the same ever present power, brought to the surface. He thinks it is the hardest he has ever fought, so desperate he is to save Zelda and Skyloft and all of everything. But once more victory -- relief -- is torn from him, and he can only watch in horror as Demise rises once more. Watches in horror as the Demon Lord is killed without so much as a second thought, body collapsing into the blade Demise now wields in a manner that makes him want to throw up. The Spirit is beside him, their anger pulsing through the bond they share. He tries to focus on that, and follows Demise into the unknown.

The fight is long and desperate, his arms shaking with fatigue. He has been fighting for so terribly long, now. But the Blade stays true and they continue on, blocking and parrying and biding their time to strike. And when Demise brings lightning down, he hears the words spoken in his mind and does the same, power screaming through his very being.

They win, after enough turmoil to last a lifetime, and he all but collapses. It’s all over, his battles won, and there is nothing more to worry about. No more enemies to fight, nothing more to obtain -- but his stomach roils uneasily even as they celebrate their success. He knows it is coming, but it still hits him like a slap to the face when the Spirit turns to him and tells him that they must be laid to rest. There is no need for the Blade any more.

Despite his protests, he knows he must do what they ask of him. The pedestal looms ahead, and with a bone-deep heaviness he brings the Sword over. Once more, he raises it to the sky, bringing it down into the pedestal with a shout. The light that bursts from the Blade blinds him momentarily, and he screws his eyes shut. All at once it is gone, and he steps back, staring at the Sword as pressure builds in his throat. Tears prick at his eyes as he turns away, trying to run from the feelings that are welling up inside him, but he is called back by the chiming sound of the Spirit’s voice.

“Link,” they say, and he no longer tries to stop the tears that had been threatening to fall. He moves back towards the Blade and they meet him halfway, form flickering into transparency. Their words remain ever forthright and concise, but he can sense the lingering sadness that they share with him.

“Thank you, Master Link. May we meet again in another life.”

He smiles sadly at her, ducking his head to try and hide the tears -- and when he looks up again they are gone, taking with them a part of him.

“Goodbye, Fi. Until we meet again,” he murmurs, and pushes down the ache that already tears into his being. The light fades, and he turns away, tears wiped from his cheeks. His Sword, he hopes, will remain at rest for ages to come, however much it had hurt to put it away. A part of him sleeps with it, and he thinks that the space left behind will always remain empty.

  
_**...adrift in time...** _

  
He stared down at his hands. They never seemed the right size, anymore. These hands that had been soaked in blood and tragedy. It didn’t matter that he had gone back and stopped the war before it happened. There was still more evil to be fought, more demons to slay and people to watch die. His fault. All alone now, because those who did survive saw what happened to his other friends and got out while they could.

He leans back against the log and sighs, tilting his face up towards the sky. It’s been years since his last adventure, and yet… There is nothing for him to do except wander, a blade in hand and shield across his back. His home no longer welcomes him, and the castle holds too many ghosts, too many bad memories. They haunt him relentlessly even now, so far away from the rest of the world.

The stars twinkle above, and he wonders how the world is still moving even when he feels like it’s stopped. His ocarina -- is it even his? -- weighs heavily against his chest, and he pulls the leather cord it hangs on out from under his tunic. Such an unassuming little object to hold so much raw power. Power. It’s always been power, hasn’t it? Ganondorf coveted it, Majora toyed with it, the Sages sacrificed their lives for it.

Over and over endlessly, bodies piling up over one man’s gluttony. He had defeated it this time, but what of the future? The power that is ever present in the instrument hums in his hands and he drops it in his lap, suddenly disgusted. In this endless cycle of suffering he was not innocent. Perhaps he was even the worst, he muses, thinking of the carefully wrapped mask tucked away in the bottom of his pack.

He could sit here for ages, debating philosophy within his own mind, but action has always kept him from falling into those thoughts too deeply. They never bring anything good with them. The ocarina that rests heavy in his lap is laid aside, his belts and cords and armor unbuckled and set away. He will sleep bow, however poorly, and try to ignore the weight of the moon bearing down on him from above.

Even after it all, he could catch no break. Sleep evades him and he finds his thoughts drifting back to the powers that ruled this world. For all the evil it was used for, was there any that remained pure? The Goddesses, perhaps, but beings were fuckle things. He did not think any of them were free from the blood of it all.

Eventually he comes back to the sword he had wielded during his first quest, the one created to lay to waste the evil that scourged the land. Did it remain pure, for the intent of its purpose? He thinks it does, startling himself with the discovery. In all this lust for power, how had it remained untouched?

But he had carried it, hadn’t he? Could he consider himself exempt from the crimes he so despised? He had turned to power far too often, far too quickly, perhaps — when he used every other item for the power it held, how could he say the opposite for the blade he used through it all?

Faintly, in some deep recess of his memories, a voice chides him for being so hard on himself. But it is a voice long gone, a voice that had abandoned him so quickly despite all they had been through. He pays it no heed, and curls in on himself.

How could he claim to be good — how could others see him as their savior? — when he was hardly any better than those who he had fought to stop?

_**...or steeped in the glowing embers of twilight** _

  
As a wolf, he was savage. Vicious. He could not claim honor, not when he ripped and tore. Sharp claws and sharper teeth, all instinct and brute force as as opposed to learned technique. The hero of the past assured him it was not any less, but he still felt unclean whenever he was a wolf. He could not help it.

He did not admit to himself, not for a long time, the way the wind felt through his fur. How the twilight embraced him like a mother, brought him into her folds. How the trees seemed to sing under the light of the moon, how it felt to raise his own face to the sky and sing with them. Nature accepted him with open arms, and he did not have to worry about obligation and propriety.

It slipped by him, unnoticed, when he no longer hated his other form -- when bounding through the forest brought exhilaration instead of disgust. When he did notice, he refused to shift for a week, identity crumbling. He was no beast. He stood on two feet, fought with the blade, did not stoop so low as primal savagery. How could he let himself? The Goddess’ chosen hero, meant to be a being of the light, of good, reduced to a snarling beast?

Privately, he would admit to himself that he never wanted to be the hero, despite how he wanted to help. Only to himself would he confess the feelings of anger, the image he had been forced into upholding. Midna, as they sat by the campfire at night, would watch him from across the flames and seem to understand. Her gaze was unnerving, seeming to lay him bare for the world to see.

He hangs off the hilt of the Blade one night, sitting on a log, and lets his eyes fall shut. The divine power of the sword thrums through him, just below the surface until he reaches into its current. It washes over him, scrubbing him clean, but that other part of him recoils. The light is warm, yes, but it is dangerous and uncaring, wild in its destructive nature. The Blade is primal in its purpose, like how he is primal as a wolf. Perhaps it is not so bad as he originally thought.

Or perhaps, he thinks, as he is weighed down by it’s massive weight, the Blade is the one he had misjudged. It is no good life, to spend one’s days bound by honor, by a promise made during the beginnings of the world. He is told that he carries an immortal soul, courageous and true, destined to be the Hero until the end of Time. The evil is defeated, his purpose proven and fulfilled, but he does not feel the role of Hero. Instead he feels alone and lost and scared of what his future is destined to hold. He did not want to end up as the last hero, regretful and alone, a life wasted and struggles forgotten.

What was he to do, now that his struggle was over? He could hardly go back to the farm he had grown up on. Things were far beyond different, forever off-kilter. Part of him wanted to run off into the forest and howl out his anger -- anger at the Goddesses, at Fate, at the cursed Blade and it’s stupid destiny. But he was human. Human, right? When he lays the Sword to rest he tries to lay to rest the wild part of himself as well.

_**the sacred blade is forever bound to the soul of the hero** _

He does not remember drawing the blade. Not in any substantial form, anyway. The memories slip past him like a fish through loose hands, farting away before he had a chance to try and grasp at them. But he thinks that, as it does now, the blade weighed heavily in his hand.

He does remember the sound of Zelda’s voice above him, ancient words falling from her lips in that disdainful manner she had perfected to seem perfectly polite to any listening in. But Link could hear the contempt. Was he worthy of the blade? Was it truly his to wield?

The sword, he knows, by some deeply ingrained memory he cannot actually remember, is older than Hyrule itself. Carried by the Hero time and time again. He was the Hero? All he saw was a country wrecked by his past failure. The Hero of what? A savior to whom? The broken remains of a people already lost.

The lands he travels are wild and dangerous, a far cry from the few flashes he can conjure of the past. How was Hateno considered a major settlement? He cannot remember anything larger, but that thought sits wrong with him. Everything sat wrong with him.

Here he was, out of his own time and a hundred years too late. Saving these people who knew nothing other than fear from the fear he had caused. The sword he pulled from the stone it was rotting in sits silent beside him, glinting in the firelight.

He had the sword before. Clearly, it wasn’t the blade at fault. It was he who had not been enough. Was he enough now? What was enough, anyway?

As he travels, preparing to end everything once and for all, he swears the blade grows hotter, heavier. Each day seems to bring greater and greater weight, his shoulders dipping under the strain. He sees Zelda — not a memory of his own, but one belonging to someone else — speaking to the blade as he lies dead and wasting beside it. The sword remains impassive under his gaze.

Ganon waits in his castle and Link remains ever more burdened, running to and fro and trying so desperately to be worthy. The blade speaks to him no more than before, and Link feels his sanity slip away more each night he spends begging it to say something.

Zelda calls on him and the time is nigh, Ganon no longer willing to wait and Zelda able to hold on no longer. The sword stays silent and Link falls silent as well, gripping it in his hands and hoping for the best.

As he is sent crashing through the floor, head spinning wildly, he sees a flash of a tower coming down like a hammer to the anvil, and shakes himself from his thoughts. The beast towers far above him and grins with its horrible not-quite face, and Link grips his sword more tightly.

A man. A beast. An evil. He blinks and the visions are gone, replaces with his own swinging hand and the demon before him.

Remember who you are.

Who you are meant to be.

Who you have been, who you will be.

He sees a princess a hundred times over, and ducks beneath a wild swing of a red-hot blade.

A hundred versions of himself and someone else all at the same time — a hundred different people but all too similar all at once. They’re disjointed, like memories half forgotten — Link would know — but in sync all at once. The sword in their hands gleams as brightly as the one in his own and suddenly he knows.

He has done this a hundred times over, and each time won. A chosen champion, despite the pain and his own fate, destined and bound to the saving of his home.

The sword chimes and with it comes the phantom of courage, of him, traveling up and through him like flame. How could he forget? How could he know? The feel of the sword in his hand so familiar and yet forever new, picked up over and over despite it all. And They are sorry for the pain, sorry for the heartache They bring, but Link is okay with it, because They are just as trapped as him.

Bound to one another, for all eternity, he thinks, and drives the blade home.

**Author's Note:**

> (edit: I check on this after posting at three am yesterday AND WHY IS THE ENTIRE THING BOLDED AHHHHH) Not completely satisfied with this, if I’m honest. I’m not sure what the overreaching theme was, besides the struggles of the incarnations of the hero. I enjoyed writing the first and third parts the most — the third I wrote first, and the first fits in with what I think should have been a linking theme. 
> 
> Due to this being unbeta-ed and an unedited oneshot, any notes about typos and poorly flowing ideas/sentences/etc are appreciated! And general feedback :) it’s 3 am and I have online tomorrow, so I should probably make an effort to sleep. Things to do besides write end of fic notes.


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